


On the Tarmac

by BiancaAparo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Betaed, Feels, One Shot, Post-His Last Vow, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:26:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1939251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiancaAparo/pseuds/BiancaAparo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Not all of the Mary of Before was an act, you know…"</p><p>**</p><p>*edited to add - beta'ed by the wonderful cadoganwest.<br/>I can't believe I forgot to put that when I first posted... I suck at life lately :^(</p><p>Anyway, enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Tarmac

On the Tarmac

_“The problems of your past are your business. The problems of your future... are my privilege.”  
_ \- From _His Last Vow_.

1 January 2015  
Somewhere in England  
3:15 PM

 _He knows_.

I can tell, even though he looked at me for less than a second when John and I got out of the car. Something cold and slithering… reptilian flickered in those beady eyes of his when he looked at me.

I shiver and it’s not from the chilly January morning air.

If Moriarty had been the Spider, Charles Augustus Magnussen the Shark, then Mycroft Holmes is most definitely the Snake. Cold, remorseless, predatory.

Perhaps that’s why I recognized him immediately for what he was. Like attracts alike, after all.

And he has me in his sights.

In his eyes, I am the Rat.

How could he possibly know? Did he overhear me talking to John at Christmas? I thought Sherlock had taken Mycroft outside for a cigarette so John and I could have some privacy. At any rate, it’s not as if I announced it by shouting at the top of my lungs… who I really was, what I really _was…_ but John knew and he threw the memory stick into the fireplace anyway.

_Is "Mary Watson" good enough for you?_

Yes. Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes. But I’ll never be good enough for you, John.

He shouldn’t stay. He should be getting on that jet with Sherlock. And yet, selfishly, I cling to his hand. I lace my fingers through his. I lock him to me, not to keep him safe. Not to stop him from joining Sherlock on his secret mission to Serbia.

No. I hold his hand, I hold him here, to London, to keep _me_ safe.

Sherlock still looks wan and thin from the shooting last summer. His hands jammed into the pockets of his beloved old coat, he mutters something to The British Government. Oh, of course, he wants a private moment to say good-bye to John. Mycroft rolls his eyes, apparently irritated that Sherlock is showing a moment of weakness, having a moment of humanity. How _dare_ Sherlock want to give his best friend a proper farewell before beginning his exile. How _selfish_.

Exile. Ha.

Execution, most likely.

John slips his hand from mine when Sherlock bends down to give me a hug, asking me to keep an eye on John. I can’t tell how much weight he had lost because of the bulky coat, but his face is definitely leaner, the infamous cheekbones much more pronounced now. I kiss him on his hollow cheek and promise to keep John “in trouble.” I watch my husband and the Great Consulting Detective walk a bit away from me, to have a private good-bye.

I run my hands over my full, heavy belly, feeling my daughter’s tiny feet kicking me from the inside. Did the phrase “butterflies in the stomach” come from these fluttery little kicks?

I look up and The Snake is staring at my belly. I smile, give him my best doe-eyed Mary Morstan smile. The Mary of Before, the blushing May bride, the supportive fiancée of John Watson who baked bread and liked cats… the Mary who wept with relief as Sherlock pulled John out of a bonfire… _Remember remember the fifth of November… The Gunpowder treason and plot…_

Mycroft does not smile back at me. His thin lips actually disappear as he eyes me. The dead blackness of his eyes freezes my blood more than the January chill does. My baby’s kicking increases, harder now, frantic. She feels my fear and I am desperately afraid.

Charles Augustus Magnussen was a pure psychopath. He felt nothing. Never felt fear or regret. And definitely _not_ remorse. He just preferred to kill with words instead of his hands. Everything he did was purely for power, to have the upper hand, to strike down the weak and the different.

I think Magnussen would have gotten along nicely with Hitler actually. They both believed in eradicating the outcasts. Eliminating the deviants like my parents… which is how I was born into a dark life in which I never quite fit in.

Not all of the Mary of Before was an act, you know…but I’m getting off on a tangent here.   

As much as he derides Sherlock for being sentimental, Mycroft is a man motivated by two of the most powerful emotions in the known world. I was motivated by those same two emotions, on the night when I turned the gun on Sherlock and pulled the trigger.

Love.

And hatred.

Mycroft, despite all his protestations to the contrary, loves his little brother.

If he didn’t, he would have had Sherlock shot down right then and there on Magnussen’s property and been done with it all. Binned the rubbish and washed his hands, an unpleasant chore accomplished. Checked off his To-Do List.

No. Magnussen taught me about _pressure points_. Sherlock is the only thing Mycroft loves more than the wretched government he serves. 

And, oh my how he hates _me_.

Because _he knows_. He knows not only who I really am, what I am… but also that I did not intend for Sherlock to leave Magnussen’s office alive.

I did not call 999, as Sherlock told John.

I still cannot, do not understand why Sherlock lied to John about that. He knows I can tell when he’s fibbing. 

And I hate myself for pulling the trigger. If only I hadn’t panicked.. I should have trusted him, the same as John trusts him… I can still hear Sherlock’s strained voice in my nightmares, I can still see his face when I close my eyes for any reason…

_Mary… let me help you…_

Bleeding hell, yes I damn well panicked, alright? I’ve been out of the game, you see. For nearly nine, going on ten years now and I bloody panicked.

My aim is just fine. It’s not that. Sherlock still has the pence I blew a hole in, can you believe it? John said he calls it his Lucky Charm.

No, I panicked because Sherlock walked in just as I was about to finish the job, to rid the world of Charles Fucking Magnussen. I hated how that Danish bastard manipulated me, how he used our past to coerce me into One Last Job. How he had sneered at me for going the straight and narrow. Reminded me that I owed him for when he took me in under his dragon’s wing, got me away from the CIA, helped me set up my own freelancer career.

With Magnussen, there is never One Last Job. He owns you until he decides to put you down like a dog. He was the reason why I got out the game for good.

When Sherlock burst into Magnussen’s office, believing I was Lady Smallwood, I thought… _Sherlock would take his chance to set his own private universe back to rights_. To get me out of the way, to get John back into 221B Baker Street, to have things as they were before The Fall.

_Let me help you…_

I thought he was trying to trick me. He is, after all, infamous for tricking people into revealing the truth. I thought he’d call the police. I envisioned a cop handcuffing John and hauling him off to gaol as an accomplice and accessory to murder.

I saw my baby being born in a prison hospital and then taken away from me.

So I pulled the trigger.

Love and hatred, you see.

I love John. I love my child.

I hate Magnussen.

I love and hate Sherlock.

And I am afraid of Mycroft.

I shot the wrong Holmes brother.

My days are numbered. Mycroft will only let me live as long as I remain pregnant, as a favor to John. Once I give birth, how long will I have? Months? Weeks?

No.

Days.

Maybe even minutes. Maybe Mycroft will pay off the obstetrician to make an inconspicuous incision while I’m in labor.

Yes. That would be something he would do. With a smile of pure joy on his face.

Not all killers carry guns, you know. Most of the killers I know only need a pen.

But I could give my life in exchange for my daughter’s. That does seem like a fair trade for the multitude of sins I have committed. I look up again at Mycroft and give him the tiniest of nods without a smile. I am The Mary of Now. The Mary who shot Sherlock. The Mary who let The British Government know I have accepted my fate. He gives me that reptilian smile again and walks to the black government vehicle waiting for him.

He does not want anyone witnessing his anguish for sending his baby brother away.

As John walks back towards me, eyes bright with tears, I hold my arms open for him. I feel at peace. At last I know my end.

Labor will distract me from any pain the cut would have caused. I will bleed out. I will slip away like the morning tide. John will grieve, but he will have his child for comfort.

And Sherlock will return, don’t fool yourself for one moment. He has one more trick up the sleeve of that black Belstaff, make no mistake. He is no mad dog needing to be put down. Someone like him will not willingly lay down for the whims of powerful men just to be walked upon. The powerful may try, but it never ends well for them.

He will bide his time until I am gone. Then he will come back and take John and our daughter under his wing. John will be the doting daddy. He will teach her to read and tie her shoes and make sure she eats her vegetables and observes regular bedtimes. But Sherlock will be her conquering hero, the knight errant who slays all her dragons. He will scare away any boy who wants to date her. He will kill anyone who tries to hurt her.

I cannot ask for more.

I squeeze John’s hand and watch the private jet wheel slowly backwards on the tarmac as it prepares for take-off. As the white jet races past us, John squeezes my hand back even tighter. He is just as tense and upset as he was when we visited Sherlock’s grave on the second anniversary of The Fall.

I do not blame him. This is the second time he’s had to witness his best friend commit suicide.

I wish I could console him with the truth. Sherlock will escape this net MI-6 threw over him for killing Magnussen. He’ll find a way to make the killing appear justified so he can return to London as the hero. Surely Mycroft has some sort of plan worked out. Surely he has adjusted computer records, giving Sherlock a license to kill. He must have found a way to make it look like Sherlock stealing Mycroft’s government computer and shooting Magnussen was some sort of black-ops mission.

All Sherlock has to do is survive Eastern Europe and wait for me to die.

Then he can come home and John won’t be alone anymore.

I don’t want John to be alone. He is a good, kind, decent man. Again, I do not understand why Sherlock lied to him. I was not drawn to John because of his need for adventure, his desire to return to the battlefields. What attracted me, what really drew me to him was his gentle smile, his soft blue eyes and his laugh when something is truly funny. I felt, no… I _knew,_ in my bones, in my very soul, that yes, John is a man who would fight for his friends, his love and for what he believes in… but he would also never hurt me.

As long as I never gave him a reason to hurt me, of course.

I think he could have honestly killed me in the Empty House that awful night when Sherlock revealed to him who I am and what I did…and I think he struggles still with that guilt. Struggles  with the knowledge he could have easily killed his wife with his bare hands if she wasn’t the mother of his unborn child.

Good men are honest men and I think that is why they struggle more with the darkness within. We villains can delude ourselves and keep the pain away… for a little while anyway.

But John will be a good father and he will raise our child to be virtuous and kind. Sherlock will teach her it’s OK to be different, to be a little mad and wild sometimes. And Mrs. Hudson will spoil her to bits, she’ll be happy to assume the role of “Granny.”. And Molly Hooper, bless her heart, will end up giving her the birds-and-bees talk both John and Sherlock will be too shy to give her, despite both of their scientific brains…. Molly will be the one who will take her shopping for her first bra, her first formal dress for the school dance, her wedding gown…

I would be lying if I didn’t say I am sorry I will miss all of that. Heartbroken, actually.

But still. It is a small price to pay, my life for hers. 

Not such a small price to pay though, watching John visibly suffer. Watch him blink back his tears and hold himself absolutely military-rigid as Sherlock’s plane flies away.

I want to hug him, kiss him and cup his dear face in my hands. I wish I could look into his earnest blue eyes and tell him, _Love, he’ll be back. When I am gone, he’ll be back and you must promise me you will make our daughter’s life a happy one… don’t let Sherlock scare her with too many stories of your past adventures. Remind him she’s a little girl and it’s OK for her to sleep with a teddy bear or the lights on if she needs to and that it’s OK if she cries when she’s sad or hurt. Teach her, teach_ both of them _to say ‘I love you’ to the people that matter. Show them both that feelings aren’t a terrible thing. Can you promise me that, John? Can you promise our little girl will be OK when I am gone and he comes to claim you as his once more…_

Wait a minute…

Why…

_Why is the plane turning around?_

My mobile rings.

So does John’s, at the same time.

We turn to each other. Grief has been replaced with utter bewilderment on John’s face.

We hear a car coming closer. Mycroft’s car. He’s coming back as well.

What… _the hell_ is happening?

We both take our mobiles out of our coat pockets at the same time.

Look at the screens at the same time.

“The fucking hell?” John says before he can help himself.

I have no words. My stomach swoops in a way it hasn’t since the first waves of morning sickness crashed down upon me. My heart starts racing. My daughter starts kicking wildly now, feeding off of my fear.

Jim Moriarty. Grinning like the madman he was… is… I don’t know. All I know is that there is a picture of Jim Moriarty on both of our mobiles with the message “Did you miss me?”

And Sherlock’s plane is turning around and Mycroft’s car is turning around…

Oh my God.

I’ve never crossed paths with Moriarty, but of course I’ve heard of him. Of course I know he is more dangerous than Magnussen and Mycroft combined…

“But he’s dead,” I hear myself ask. “I mean, you told me he was dead, Moriarty.”

John has that murderous little smile on his face now. That tight grin he gets when he is feeling quite angry. But for the first time in days, since Magnussen’s execution, his eyes look alive. “Well, if he isn’t ... he’d better wrap up warm. There’s an East Wind coming.”

My heart leapt.

If Sherlock is coming back now… he won’t allow Mycroft to hurt me.

Despite everything, Sherlock still _likes me_.

I could live long enough to help my daughter pick out her wedding dress yet.

I could survive this after all.

I still feel dreadful. I still feel like I could be sick. My heart is still pounding. Surviving Mycroft also means surviving Moriarty and I know I am now a high-profile target if Moriarty is indeed still alive. But I stand more of a chance against Moriarty than I do against Mycroft. Moriarty will want to play his little games again…

But I won’t die at Mycroft’s hands. Sherlock will make sure of that. He will tell Mycroft to stand down. Not for my sake, but for John and our child. Because the child is important to John and a child needs her mother…

I look at my husband.

I’m starting to understand why Sherlock lied to John about me now.

But what I still don’t understand… is that if Sherlock Holmes is indeed on the side of the angels, why does he does he still want to be friends with a devil like me?

~*~ The End ~*~

 


End file.
